


Grapholagnia

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Dirty Pictures, Drawing, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grapholagnia - The urge to stare at obscene pictures.  Steve Rogers and his experiences with art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grapholagnia

The first time he ever saw a woman naked was in a picture.  He’d felt his cheeks flush, pretty sure it wasn’t something he should be looking at, but then again, it wasn’t as if she was real, as if he should hide his eyes to be a gentleman and preserve her modesty.  When he’d asked Momma about it later, she’d just told him that naked pictures were all right in art, and that he shouldn’t worry about it, because everybody got naked.

He guessed that was true enough.  As he got older and started to think about things like that, sometimes when he was sketching and let his mind wander his pencil would etch out the shapes of a woman or a man, naked or in underwear or only partly dressed, strong thighs or soft curves.  He thought he maybe shouldn’t stare at the pin-ups they put up everywhere, but sometimes he couldn’t tear his eyes away from them, and the way the women looked, sexy and saucy and sure of themselves.  It was all right to stare, he told himself.  Wasn’t like he’d ever be with a woman like that, right?

The first time he saw a picture that was dirtier than just an artistic nude was during the war.  One of the boys found a book of them while they were in France, and they’d showed it to him, to make him blush, they figured—they got a kick out of how young he was compared to a lot of the rest of them, how easy it was to make him flush red and flustered.  And hell, had he ever blushed, so he figured they’d got their kicks out of it.  But he’d never even imagined—it wasn’t that people did those things, it was the way they’d recorded them, in careful lines and ink, straining muscle and sweaty skin suggested by the black and white of the shapes across the page, poses and positions he’d never imagined or thought possible.  He kept the book, staring at it sometimes when he was on his own.  It wasn’t that he was fantasizing off of it; he did that kind of thing on his own time, not over a book, just himself and his hand, usually quick as he could so he didn’t have time to feel embarrassed or dirty or worry about Bucky catching him at it, and if images from the pictures maybe made their way into his mind sometimes, well, that was another thing.  But it was the idea of the artist drawing it that drew him in, kept him fascinated—had the artist been there, watching, sketching quick to capture movement and passion in the moment?  Or had the artist been one of the participants, going back to it later and drawing from memory?

It was only later on that he found himself sketching from his own memory, his cheeks flushing at the thoughts, the recollections, more in his body than his mind, the sensations, closeness and damp heat and slick skin shivering like ghosts in remembered pathways over his skin.  Wondering if she’d mind.  The pictures he drew were more about her than him, after all; it felt strange to focus on drawing his own ass, so he just penciled himself in lightly, focused on her breasts and the fall of her curls over her shoulders, the light in her eyes and the wink in her smile as she laughed.

When Bernie found out, she just laughed, delighted, with that same wink and light in her smile, and offered to pose.


End file.
